The Scent of Parchment
by Indygodusk
Summary: For 8 years, Draco has kept his thoughts hidden behind a polite mask to regain his family's place at the top of society. Will a chance meeting at a New Year's Eve masquerade prompt him to finally reveal his true face, or will the mask become permanent?
1. Becoming Respectable

Disclaimer: The Harry Potter world does not belong to me.

AN: This should only be around 4-5 chapters long. Hopefully I'll get it all out in the next two weeks, and then I'll start updating my Ranma fic again. Please enjoy!

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><p><strong>The Scent of Parchment<strong>: A Harry Potter fanfic

by Indygodusk

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><p><strong>Chapter 1: Becoming respectable<strong>

The ink glittered like carved emeralds as Draco signed the bottom of the parchment. Blowing softly on the ink to dry it, he felt a warm glow of satisfaction. Schooling his features, Draco then passed the contract across the table to the Director of the British Museum of Magic, Iravan Banerjee. Chortling to himself, Mr. Banerjee added his own signature in a deep blue that rippled with foamy whitecaps.

Opening the lacquered box by his elbow, the Director next removed a small square stamp. With a muttered charm, he affixed the wax seal of the British Museum of Magic to the bottom of the document. The click of a padlock closing echoed out from the parchment. A second later, the contract finalized with a flare of golden sparks and registered itself with the Ministry of Magic.

"Once again, Mr. Malfoy," the spritely Indian man said as he carefully packed away his seal, quills, and extra parchment, "from start to finish it has been a pleasure working with you! I'm glad you decided to finally formally join the museum board, instead of just continuing on as an outside consultant. Your work on the current exhibit has once again established our museum as the finest in the United Kingdom!"

Beaming at Draco, he continued, "The head archivist hasn't been this excited in years, though we can't tell if it's due to the rare items you acquired from your Malfoy family contacts across Europe or," Mr. Banerjee paused and sent Draco a wink, "the way you get her all flustered and blushing with your flirting."

Laughing cockily, Draco tossed his braid of pale blond hair over his shoulder and replied, "Good for me either way. It gives me hope that she'll take me up on my offer. She may be older than my mother, happily married, and head of her own department, but a woman can get bored with the status quo. Perhaps she'll finally give in and allow me to steal her away to manage the Malfoy collection full time."

"Why, Mr. Malfoy! As a member of the museum board, you couldn't possibly advocate the loss of such a key staff member?" the director teased back with a hand held theatrically to his chest.

In the midst of composing a witty riposte, Draco stuttered to a pause when the contract on the table gave a little cough and spit out a smaller document.

"Oh dear, did we forget a permit?" asked Mr. Banerjee as he picked up the new parchment. Skimming it quickly, he huffed in annoyance and tugged on his goatee in agitation. "Blast, new import regulations require us to file a form 260-c5x before bringing those illustrated Scandinavian grimoires and the Czechoslovakian relics into the country, or 'else face consequences,' whatever that means." Passing over the newly birthed permit to Draco, he pulled his quill and ink back out from his bag.

"Will they hold them at the border or try to seize them as contraband?" asked Draco. "A few years ago I had recurrent problems with international packages becoming broken or lost through Ministry Customs." Draco frowned as he skimmed the legalese. "The artifacts are already in transit and I've promised the owners that they'd be returned undamaged."

Draco handed back the permit as Mr. Banerjee soothed, "Considering our museum's relationship with the government inspectors, I'd wager a delay at the worst." He quickly filled in all of the blanks and then tapped the edge of the parchment to seal the ink. "Don't forget that the influence of your family's reputation has elevated over the last few years as well, due mostly to your own hard work. Such pettiness belongs to the past. You have nothing to fear from Customs nowadays."

Draco grunted noncommittally. It was nice to know that someone had noticed his over eight years of painstaking effort to recover from the bad reputation his family had acquired from both sides of the recent war. Draco took his duty to his family very seriously. Becoming a prominent member of the museum board and co-sponsoring the next exhibit were all part of his plan to continually increase public opinion of the Malfoy family. However, that didn't mean that he now trusted all ministry employees.

After repacking his writing supplies, Mr. Banerjee checked his pocket watch with a frown. "I'm booked solid for the rest of the afternoon," he said. "Do you think you could run the permit over to the ministry today to officially file it for a rush before Christmas hits and everyone takes a vacation?"

"Of course," Draco replied as he slipped the document into his bag. "I have one more meeting after this, but then I'm free." Bidding the director farewell, Draco left the Museum office with flourishing bow. The hallways of the building radiated heat against the winter chill outside. The caster had gone a bit overboard though, and Draco found himself perspiring lightly by the time he left the building.

Walking briskly down the street, Draco allowed his robes to flap open slightly in the chill breeze. The crispness of the winter air felt refreshing, not to mention that it gave his cheeks good color. Hopping over a small mound of snow on the corner, Draco turned at the next intersection and spotted the sign he was looking for. He sped up at the thought of a hot cup of tea, as the cold quickly became more pressing than pink cheeks to brighten his eyes.

A few seconds later, Draco reached his destination. Bypassing the members-only club entrance with a silent promise to visit later that week for the apricot scones, Draco continued walking until he reached the window display for the public tearoom. There he paused to check out his reflection. Happy with what he found, Draco nevertheless took a moment to pull his robes straighter on his shoulders and twirl a loose strand of hair between his fingers with a muttered charm so that it fell just so in front of his ear. Then he swept into the café with a confident strut.

Gliding to rest at an empty booth equipped with controllable privacy charms, he removed his outer cloak and settled back into the heat with a sigh. When the waitress appeared by his side, he informed her that he had a guest coming. Then he ordered a cup of house tea.

"Anything else I can help you with?" she asked with a leer as her eyes blatantly flickered up and down his body. Obviously she was new here, as such behavior from the staff wouldn't be long tolerated.

"If I didn't have a business meeting…" he let his voice trail off regretfully, though he would have turned her down even if he had been free. She didn't stir him at all. Responding to flirting with more flirting had simply become second nature in the last few years. Besides which, Draco didn't make out with strangers or have tacky sex in storage closets. A Malfoy had standards, which her too-tight polyester robes and overdone makeup failed to meet.

Fingering the cool jade clip adorning the base of his braid, Draco glanced outside the window for sight of his contact. Today was the first time he'd worn the carved jade and gold clasp, but from the appreciative glances of the waitress, and the envious glares of the balding man at the next table, Draco knew it looked stunning against his sleek, white-blond hair.

A former girlfriend had called him vain for refusing to leave the house without at least a ring or ear stud, but Draco knew she just felt jealous that he could pull off both silver and gold with his coloring. She was allergic to everything but copper, which turned her skin green. Her favorite piece of jewelry was a bracelet made of rainbow-colored plastic hearts. Draco should have taken that information as a sign and broken up with her when he first noticed it, instead of letting the relationship limp along for another month. He'd thought the solution might be to introduce her to pearls… but then she'd worn pearls to the opera, and it had somehow just made her look jaundiced in comparison.

If she couldn't wear the Malfoy jewels for entertaining, or use the Malfoy silverware for formal dining, there was no way she could take up her proper position in society as Malfoy Matriarch one day. After all, what would she have worn for the wedding photos, hemp? But he'd ignored his instincts.

Of course, at the time he'd been more interested in the way she somehow turned his business competitor into a babbling idiot during contract negotiations, how she was the exact opposite of his ex-wife, and her zeal to hold long meetings in his office (across his desk or on his couch), to look too closely at her flaws. But then the novelty had worn off. His business deal had closed, and he'd realized that getting to regularly touch nice cleavage didn't make up for a basic lack of wit and fashion sense. Plus, she'd tried to call him _Drakkie-poo_. She'd had to go.

After his divorce, he'd gone through an endless string of girlfriends, but no one had managed to keep his interest for long. No woman had been able to handle the combination of his high intelligence, handsome face, and diverse interests. It probably didn't help that he lied and hid most of those interests. Or that he was high maintenance, refused to uncover his forearms in bed, and had issues with both the light and dark factions during the last war that he refused to discuss.

To date, no woman had yet tempted Draco to openly reveal himself. He'd yet to find a woman beautiful enough, witty enough, or compassionate enough to make exposing himself worth the risk. Not even his ex-wife during their short-lived marriage had enticed him to discuss his innermost feelings. It might have helped if he'd actually loved his wife.

Of course, Astoria hadn't been in love with Draco himself either. She was a dutiful daughter giving in to her parent's pressure to secure his blood lineage and money. Their marriage had elevated his family's status back to respectable and paid off her parent's debts. They'd been young, Astoria especially, but not naïve. For several years they enjoyed a comfortable if distant marriage.

Then she had gone and fallen crazily in love with some foreigner. It hurt, but he'd put up with it stoically for almost a year. Draco had kept his vows even when she didn't as a matter of personal honor. Nonetheless, they finally agreed to separate before she bore Draco a bastard. He could swallow adultery in private if he had to, but his heir must hold Malfoy blood for the sake of his family's ancestral magic and honor. So they'd made a deal.

Despite his fears, their separation ended up serving them both quite well. Still fond of Astoria as a person, despite their marriage ending, Draco gave her enough money to relocate in style to her lover's estate overseas. In fact, when word got out about Astoria's affair and the settlement, it increased his reputation instead of staining it. Her departure from the country made Draco a tragic figure doted upon by society matrons. Draco let people assume what they would, and milked the situation for every advantage he could get.

So life continued much as it had before, and in public he continued to wear a mask over his true feelings. When people looked at Draco Malfoy, they needed to see someone trust-worthy. Important people needed to like him. He'd learned the hard way after the war just how few real friends his family had, how few friends he really had. The disdain and contempt shown to his family had been brutal.

Draco had learned to bite his tongue and weigh his words more carefully before speaking. He'd also learned the power of a handsome face. By emphasizing his striking looks with stylish jewelry and clothing, he'd noticed women becoming more indulgent and men more susceptible to flattery. Presenting himself as a shallow, handsome young businessman had slowly regained him a place in society and restored his family name. But it had been hard. Playing that role was still hard.

In fact, more and more, it felt like he was slowly withering away inside. Like a mangy animal trapped in a too small cage, Draco felt his soul becoming twisted and bruised against the rusty iron bars. At seventeen, he'd drawn a two-dimensional image of a tame Draco Malfoy onto the parchment of wizarding society. In the eight years since, that image had stayed static. But the person Draco had become inside no longer fit within those hastily sketched lines.

To be honest, Draco didn't really like his public persona. Although he enjoyed flirting with people he liked, he didn't really like most of his acquaintances. But it had become automatic. Sometimes it made him sick to flirt and compliment the stuck-up cows that bad-mouthed their family and friends the minute someone stepped out of earshot. Or to drink to the health of a man who would serve the world better if he fell off of a broom over the ocean. He knew that many of those people who claimed his friendship now had taken glee in gossiping about his family's disgrace just a few years before.

But it wasn't necessarily lying and manipulating other people to do what he wanted that really bothered Draco. He'd always liked manipulating people. What bothered Draco about it all was the fact that he still lived in fear eight years after the war had ended. He'd thought about speaking his mind to Belinda Boggs or telling off Astin Meerson III. But the fear of how society would react always kept him silent and his true thoughts hidden. What if they once again ostracized his mother, snubbed his father, and reduced Draco to begging for favors in the streets?

The first few years after the war had been hellish. Even relatives as far removed as third cousins had felt the brunt of the Malfoy's fall from grace. Societal disdain had gotten so bad that they'd made his mother lock herself in her room and cry. Until that time period, Draco had never even seen evidence of, much less heard, his mother crying. He couldn't take that again. He wouldn't make her take that again.

However, he didn't know how much longer he could maintain his mask without something inside dying permanently. Draco didn't know how to get out of the trap he had set for himself. Joining the museum board was one of the few things he'd done that aided both his true self and his quest to cement the safety of his family. He could explore his love of history and esoteric magical tomes while serving the community and making good contacts at the same time.

Lately he'd wondered if maybe he'd come far enough. That maybe his family's reputation could weather the bumps of letting a bit more of his true self shine forth. Perhaps he could say his true thoughts, or talk to someone in public that the rest of high society currently snubbed. Yet each time he tried to open his lips and be honest, fear gagged his good intentions and inserted a lie into his mouth instead.

Nevertheless, Draco knew that something had to change soon or he was going to crack.

Shaking himself from his introspection, he realized that the waitress was still leering at him. "Just tea for now," he told her in a brisk, dismissive tone.

There was something he was supposed to add next, some little courtesy that he'd been working on adding for people so he didn't seem too arrogant and autocratic. An ex-girlfriend several exes ago had always nagged him about it, and it was the only thing from that relationship that he'd decided to keep. Ah yes, now he remembered. "Thank you," he drawled.

Sighing regretfully, the waitress finally left.

To be continued…

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><p>Author Notes: This starts out slow, but I promise more meat next chapter. Let me know what you think so far. I'd appreciate your encouragement. Thanks!<p> 


	2. Draco's Designs

Disclaimer: The Harry Potter world does not belong to me.

**The Scent of Parchment**: A Harry Potter fanfic

by Indygodusk

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><p><strong>Chapter 2: Draco's Designs<strong>

Reading once more through the investigative report he'd commissioned, Draco's eyes stuttered again on the line detailing the single potential flaw in Miguel Nava's background: his father was a muggle. Years of examining his own mind in relation to the teachings of his youth had shown Draco that a knee-jerk contempt towards half-bloods was both short-sighted and wrong. The average half-blood had just as much talent and intelligence as a pure-blood. Look at Potter, Granger, (or the Dark Lord...), and that famous curse-breaker with a huge nose whose name started with a C… none of them were pure-bloods, and no one could call them inferior. Not magically at least (he'd leave his opinions on grooming, fashion, and wit for another day).

Draco knew that. He'd come to believe that.

And on paper, Miguel Nava looked like the perfect business partner for his expansion to the Americas. In addition to English, Miguel spoke Spanish, Portuguese, French, and a smattering of different Creole and island languages. His skills as a salesman and networker had come highly recommended by a friend, Sophie Clearwater, who owned several art galleries both here and overseas. The independent report backed up all of her praises as well.

Yet he didn't like something about Miguel Nava. However, he couldn't find a reason for it besides that one line about the man's father. Sometimes the prejudices of his childhood crept up on Draco despite his best efforts. Was this good instincts warning him of something, or old prejudices slipping through?

Draco didn't know. He just hoped that this meeting would answer that question for him. Slipping the report back into his bag, Draco told himself sternly to keep an open mind.

A minute later, Mr. Nava walked in holding the arm of Draco's ex-sister-in-law, Daphne Greengrass. Miguel Nava wore khaki slacks and a linen shirt beneath his tailored brown robes, giving the impression of casual elegance. Daphne herself looked sumptuous, as always, in burgundy robes trimmed in ermine.

"Daphne," Draco greeted in surprise, "what are you doing here?" Surprise had stripped his greeting of tact, but he wanted to know. She knew he'd planned to meet Mr. Nava alone. Her presence upset his careful planning for how this meeting would go.

"I'm here to help out with the negotiations, since Miguel is a dear friend of my darling Sophie, and I don't want you to scare him off," she responded in a tone just shy of saccharine.

Draco sent her a sharp look, but bit back his scathing reply.

After they'd all settled down and received their tea, and Mr. Nava had demanded that they all address him as Miguel, Draco activated the privacy spells on the booth to begin negotiations. The spell was a newer innovation that had come about following the war. A dense fog billowed out from under the seats and surrounded the booth. It muffled both sight and sound from those sitting outside the spell. It had the unfortunate side-effect of making the air inside the spell extremely humid, but privacy was worth a little discomfort. Draco had also planned for the humidity by sporting a simple hairstyle that wouldn't go limp, and had applied a potion before leaving the house to prevent any embarrassing curling. Daphne had no such luck, and her elaborately coiffed hair began deflating as they sat talking pleasantries. Draco took some small satisfaction in that.

"So Draco, may I call you Draco?" Without waiting for agreement, Miguel shifted his teacup to the side and leaned forward with an eager smile. "Daphne and Sophie have told me so many good things about you that I feel like we're already friends."

Draco just smiled noncommittally and let the man continue. "Tell me more about this line you want me to sell to my American contacts. You did not make clear whether it is sculpture, jewelry, or clothing. Since my darling Daphne has accompanied me, I deduce that she is somehow involved?"

Daphne gasped, "Draco, you haven't told him yet?"

"Daphne," Draco said repressively, "this _is_ our first meeting."

But Daphne ignored his reply and continued talking over his words. "Draco has been a silent partner in my jewelry stores since the beginning," she began, ignoring Draco's glares. Flipping her now limp brown curls back over her shoulder, she laid a flirtatious finger on Miguel's wrist. "You know I only carry the finest jewelry and accessories for the discerning witch and wizard," she said earnestly to his captivated brown eyes.

"But of course," he murmured with a light Latin accent. "From the day it opened, Wreath of Laurels Jewelry has been known as such. Even overseas it is seen as an exclusive, high-end establishment that one should visit when procuring the best gifts."

"Exactly," she purred with a pleased smile. "So you can imagine my irritation when every time my partner visited, he did nothing but ridicule and criticize most of the men's accessories in my jewelry cases," Daphne sent Draco a mock glare.

Relaxing back into his seat, Draco drawled, "That's because they were ugly. That you had no eye for masculine styling wasn't my fault." He'd decided to let Daphne have her way. She'd hijacked the meeting and obviously wanted Draco to like Miguel, so he'd sit back and trust that she knew what she was doing. For now.

"But how can this be?" Miguel asked with a confused crinkle between his brows. "Daphne is known for the DragonStar brand. All of the rich and famous men are wearing it these past few years, ever since the lead singer of The Weird Sisters, Myron Wagtail, began sporting DragonStar during his concerts. Because only Wreathe of Laurels sells it, and won't release the name of the designer, it has become very exclusive."

He leaned forward and gesticulated, "DragonStar has become THE premier brand for young wizards wanting to make a fashionable statement." Miguel turned to Draco in dismay, "how could a man with your flair for fashion find such things ugly?"

"In fact," running an assessing gaze over Draco's frame, Miguel's eyes jumped back and forth between Draco's jade hair clip, golden pendant, and multitude of rings. He continued, "in fact, it looks like you might be wearing the DragonStar brand right now." He shook his head and sat back. "This story has me thinking you are confusing dear Daphne with someone else."

A smirk stretched across Draco's lips, but he stayed silent.

Daphne gave a tinkling laugh and explained, "I only started selling DragonStar jewelry a little over four years ago. Before that, I purchased from a few local designers. Draco hated them though, and used to scribble me scathing notes about their flaws on scraps of paper while I helped customers." She sent Draco a teasing pout, "which would drive me batty because I had to keep smiling while simultaneously wanting to throw things at his head."

"But then one day," she said with a decisive tap on the table, "he accidentally sent me a sketch of a man's ring on the reverse side of his insult. It was quite good, so I encouraged him to create it."

"Ha," Draco exclaimed, "more like dared and threatened. You said that I had to build the ring and try to sell it in the store, and if it failed I wasn't allowed to criticize other people's work anymore. You picked at me for weeks until I finally agreed."

"Well, yes," she conceded, "but then you gave me six rings instead of just the one that I'd demanded, so you couldn't have been resisting that hard."

Draco shrugged. "Whatever the case, they all sold before lunch on the same day she put them out," he leaned forward to add boastingly, "with even a request for a matching cloak pin and watch chain added to one order."

"Wait," Miguel said slowly, "you are the mysterious designer of DragonStar accessories? The man courted by Quidditch stars, musicians, and even politicians?"

Giving a mysterious little smirk, Draco replied, "Indeed."

"But I thought you were just a rich and mostly idle businessman?" Miguel blurted out, and then blushed at the implied insult. "I'm sorry. It's just that I did not- even with our meeting- and now I am kicking myself for not even suspecting."

"That has always shocked me, to be honest," Draco drawled, "since the connection between the name Draco and DragonStar seems rather obvious."

Yet if they hadn't guessed it, he also had not advertised it. At first, Draco had kept his identity as a designer secret because he feared that the businessmen he needed to impress would judge him harshly for dabbling in jewelry, would think him frivolous. Rebuilding the Malfoy reputation in post-war wizarding society had been more difficult and humbling than Draco had ever expected. He didn't want to undo any of his hard work by becoming the tabloid rumor of the week. Plus, his designs were personal. It would hurt if the people he had to deal with daily derided them. Thus, even though his reputation and allies had become more stable, keeping his designing private had stayed a habit.

Daphne had understood, but always argued against it. Her campaign gained particular steam after his divorce from Astoria. Daphne had prodded him for years to stop being miserable and become a designer full time. Pointing out his designs' popularity, she argued that going public would only help his family and fortunes, not hurt them.

Draco had finally started to believe that she could be right. Partnering with Miguel Nava to open up the DragonStar brand to American distribution marked the next step in his plan to transition to fashion designing full time. If he gained a solid foothold overseas, Draco had decided to treat it as a sign that he could go public with his identity.

"So Miguel," Daphne interjected, "are you interested in selling DragonStar designs for us overseas?"

"I would be a fool to say no," he rejoined with a smile, "and I am no fool." He took a sip of now cold tea before continuing. "If I had met the dashing Señor Malfoy before today, I would not have been so surprised. I can easily believe that he is the innovative designer I've been following the last few years in the fashion news. I commend you, Sir." He raised his cup in salute.

"Thank you," Draco replied as he tipped his head in acknowledgment.

Miguel flashed him a smile and returned to business. "There is an opening in the American markets for fine male wizarding accessories, especially in Latin America. They would eagerly buy your designs." Miguel paused to pull out a notebook and quill. "You make jewelry, watches, chains, hair clips, canes, and wand holders for a primarily male clientele, yes?"

"Occasionally I make jewelry for women too," Draco explained, "but my focus is more on the male aesthetic. I usually only design things that I would personally want to wear."

Draco had always adored the way rings and necklaces sent a subtle message about his personality, power, and position. He'd even grown his hair out just so he could start wearing interesting hair clips at the nape of his neck. It was one of the few ways he'd stayed honest to himself. Even if his lips lied, his accessories would always portray the true Draco Malfoy.

As they got down to business hammering out the logistics of the deal, Draco noticed that his bad feelings about Miguel Nava had disappeared. He realized that it must have been lingering prejudice after all. Miguel's obvious admiration of Draco's work helped to quickly eradicate any last remnants of his earlier foreboding. After all, just knowing he was susceptible to flattery wasn't enough to keep it from working on him. Draco made sure to show Miguel increased respect during the rest of their meeting to make up for his earlier coolness. Their conversation wound down with a promise to meet up after the holidays in January to finalize details, and they all stood up to go their separate ways.

Draco himself was last to leave, since he'd promised to settle the check and the waitress was dawdling in the back. As he stood waiting for her return, he found himself waved over to a table of high society elite: Sophie Bradford, Liam Blackstone, and Baily Parker. In his private thoughts Draco labeled them gossiping vultures, but to their faces he remained friendly and scrupulously polite.

For a second he feared that they had seen him meeting with Mr. Nava, and were going to call him out about the man being a half-blood. Then Draco chastised himself for the thought. Even if Mr. Nava wasn't a respectable gentleman, it wasn't considered polite to discuss blood purity in public anymore. Old habits died hard. Sighing internally, Draco wondered if he would ever conquer the prejudiced thoughts of his youth. Then he focused his mind on portraying a friendly and appreciative mask for the upcoming conversation.

After exchanging a few pleasantries, Sophie shifted forward in a move obviously calculated to put her golden curls in the shaft of sunlight streaming in through the window. "So Malfoy," she purred, "you were a Quidditch player at Hogwarts, weren't you?"

Instantly put on guard, Draco did his best to keep his posture relaxed as he replied, "Yes, I played seeker for Slytherin for several years. Why do you ask?"

"You must have played against Angelina Johnson, then," Sophie said. "Was she as muscular and brutish then as she is now?"

"Well," Draco stalled, "she was certainly fit, but I wouldn't exactly have called her brutish. She made Captain and drove her team hard, but it paid off in wins for Gryffindor," he said with a faint grimace as he forced himself to be fair.

"Oh, a Gryffindor," said Baily with a mewl of distaste, "that explains it. I should have expected it, considering the kind of rabble she hangs out with."

Sophie's fiancé, Liam, added, "I've heard she spends an inordinate amount of time with that joke shop fellow, the red-headed one."

"George Weasley," Draco identified. "They were thick as thieves during school, him and Fred and Angelina."

"Weasleys," Sophie said distastefully with a crinkle of her nose. "You get rid of a few and they immediately start breeding more." Draco forced himself to swallow his appalled reaction to her callous words. He just had to put up with these people for a minute more until he paid his bill, and then he could leave and wash away the bad taste of this conversation.

Twining a golden curl around her finger, Sophie continued meanly, "Well, whoever her friends are, she's going to need them now."

"Why now especially, my most darling Sophie?" asked Liam eagerly. The overdone endearment made Draco want to snort, especially since he knew what Liam called her when she wasn't around, but he controlled his reaction. Practice kept his social mask firmly in place.

"Oh, haven't you heard, Sweetums? Little Angelina was dating Ramsey Buckleshot of the Derbyshire Buckleshots, the one who works in the Department of Magical Games and Sports."

"Yes, she _was_ dating him…" Baily interrupted with cruel emphasis.

Considering the glee on their faces, Draco had a bad feeling about what Sophie would say next. It certainly didn't bode well for Angelina. Impatiently he looked around for his waitress again. Although they'd never been friendly, he still didn't want to sit around and badmouth Angelina Johnson. Yet if he stormed off, he risked offending Sophie and having her turn her sharp tongue his way. Biting back his feelings, Draco forced himself to slouch languidly against the side of their booth.

"He broke up with her in the middle of the Ministry lobby," Sophie gleefully related. "She was completely humiliated! Poor Ramsey told her that he needed a real woman. He'd already started dating Belinda Willowby of the Willowby Sibling Singers instead."

Baily leaned forward to add, "I heard that she caught him kissing his new secretary in the lobby, not some famous singer. So he told Angelina that he preferred someone with spontaneity who wasn't so uptight all of the time, not to mention someone more feminine. Well, you know what they say about female athletes: she may know how to ride a broom for hours," she winked salaciously, "but try to put her in dress robes and she'll have dribbled gravy down the front and ripped the hem within five minutes." All three tittered maliciously.

Draco had once happily participated in such gossip. At Hogwarts, he'd even gleefully created rumors just because he could. But after the war, his family had been victimized too cruelly by gossip for him to ever take such merciless joy in it again. Yet instead of protesting, as he'd wished so many times someone would do for him, he merely stood here and listened. Sometimes, he didn't like himself very much.

Once she regained her breath, Baily continued. "It gets better. Angelina got so mad she punched Ramsey! And they both tumbled into the fountain in the middle of the Ministry atrium. Ramsey's new secretary girlfriend started shrieking at them like a banshee, until Aurors finally had to come and fish them out!"

"Well I heard," Sophie added after wiping away a tear of mirth, "that she also tried to get Ramsey to rig the Quaffles for one of her friend's Quidditch games."

"That doesn't sound like something Angelina would do," Draco unintentionally found himself saying. He hadn't meant to speak up, but the low boil of protest in his gut had finally bubbled over and spewed out. As the girls turned incredulous eyes his way, he scrambled to fix his social blunder. "She is a Gryffindor, after all," he added quickly in a careless drawl. It made him angry that Sophie would say something so slanderous, but he couldn't let his true feeling about her show. He mustn't risk it.

"Good point. Perhaps Sophie merely confused Angelina with someone else," Liam patted her hand condescendingly. Ignoring the annoyed snap in Sophie's eye, he then said, "What I'm interested to see now is whom Buckleshot brings to his big New Years Eve Party, the singer or the secretary. Did you all get invites?"

"Of course," Sophie said, "everyone who is anyone will be there. We'll probably have to put up with some undesirables from the Ministry, considering Ramsey works there, but otherwise it should be a fabulous bash."

"I bet you my new bracelet that he brings the secretary," Baily dared archly.

"You're on," Sophie replied, sticking out her hand to shake on it. "I'll put up my hair comb for the singer." Liam tapped their clasped hands with his wand and a green spark shot out.

"Liam!" Sophie protested.

A glint of meanness in his eyes, Liam explained sweetly, "I just want to make sure that no one tries to get out of paying up later, not that we have to worry about something like that with the two of you..."

At last, Draco spotted his waitress entering the room. Doing his best to appear regretful at saying farewell, he made his excuses and returned to his table. Giving the waitress a few galleons and telling her to keep the change, since he absolutely refused to wait one more minute, Draco fastened his cloak and finally left the shop.

Taking a deep breath of cold winter air, he let his breath out in an explosion of mist. If only he could expel his negative feelings as easily. As he checked his engraved pocket watch, he realized that he only had a few hours before the Ministry closed. Draco still needed to file his petition to get those museum artifacts past customs.

Entering a bookshop a few blocks down, Draco breathed in deeply at the comforting scent of parchment. He'd prefer to linger, perhaps browse the shelves, but his business was pressing. Tossing a coin into the cup on the mantelpiece, he clearly enunciated, "Ministry of Magic" before throwing a handful of floo powder into the fireplace and stepping in.

A split second later, he appeared in the atrium of the Ministry. A large fountain still stood in the center, but the sculpture now appeared to be made of geometric shapes in jewel tones, as opposed to specific figures or races. A helpful secretary directed him to the appropriate office for his petition, and Draco strode confidently over to the lift.

Reaching the office he needed, Draco came to a halt in the open doorway at the sound of muffled swearing. Inside he saw a short, curvaceous witch straining on tiptoes up against a cabinet, trying to get something down. Her fingers didn't quite reach beyond the top edge. As Draco watched, she bent her knees and tried to hop up to reach the shadowy bundle sitting on top. The jump failed. However, it caused her curly hair, and other parts of her anatomy, to bounce enticingly. Draco caught his breath at the sight and leered appreciatively.

Leaning against the door frame, his eyes roaming up and down her straining body, Draco finally found the breath to ask the obvious question, "Why don't you just use your wand to get whatever it is down?"

Jolting in surprise, the witch squeaked and stumbled back into her desk. The bump caused a stack of papers to tumble off with a clatter. In response to the noise, a fluffy orange creature the size of a cat streaked off the top of the cabinet and into the hallway.

"You startled me," she accused breathlessly with one hand held to her ample chest as she turned around to face him. A split second later, Draco's gaze met familiar, cinnamon-flecked eyes and he realized that the lush body he'd been ogling belonged to none other than Hermione Granger.

TO BE CONTINUED


	3. Biting her lip

Disclaimer: The Harry Potter world does not belong to me.

**The Scent of Parchment**: A Harry Potter fanfic

by Indygodusk

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 3: Biting her lip<strong>

"You startled me," she accused breathlessly with one hand held to her ample chest as she turned around to face him. A split second later, Draco's gaze met familiar cinnamon-flecked eyes and he realized that the lush body he'd been ogling belonged to none other than Hermione Granger. Grimacing at himself, he wiped the leer off his face and stopped slouching.

She seemed to realize his identity at the same time, for she abruptly straightened her spine and tried to bush off some dust from the arm of her robe. "Can I help you with something, or are you just here to molest my door?" she asked tersely, seemingly unaware of the streak of dust running down the left side of her nose. After a welcome like that, he felt no need to inform her of it either.

In fact… raising his eyebrow insolently, Draco let his spine go liquid and his hips cock indolently as he lounged back against the doorframe. An ex-girlfriend had once called the pose, depending on her mood, either unbearably sexy or insufferably annoying. That comment was the only thing he still treasured from that relationship.

Draco ticked down the seconds starting from five in his head. Before he even reached zero, Hermione's jaw clenched and a muscle by her eyebrow began to tick. Draco didn't bother hiding his smirk of triumph.

"Granger," he drawled, "last I checked you were a witch of not inconsiderable intelligence. So I ask again, why don't you just use magic to get what you need down, or ask for help, instead of tip-toeing about like a drunken ballerina?"

Granger blew out an aggravated breath and attempted to straighten her twisted robes. "If you must know, though I don't know why you do, my familiar decided to drag my purse to the top of the cabinet and it has my wand in it. In another minute I would have had it. Unlike some people, I try to solve my own problems. I don't need lackeys to do it for me." She sniffed haughtily.

As Granger talked, her body position shifted as if bracing for an insult. At the same time, her shoulders canted forward in preparation for attack. It was a familiar position that she often assumed during their interactions. Draco felt déjà vu, as if this moment could be swapped out with any other moment over the past fourteen years, and he wouldn't even notice.

He insulted Granger, she insulted him back, Draco's pride and feelings got hurt so he responded more scathingly, things escalated, rinse and repeat. Abruptly, Draco was tired of it. This was a cycle he wasn't interested in reliving again. They weren't children anymore.

Straightening up from his provocative sprawl, he flicked his wand out and levitated Granger's purse down into his hand. Then he took two steps forward and, restraining the petty urge to throw it at her head, put it gently down on the surface of her desk. Releasing the soft material, he turned and cast a quick spell to restore the fallen stack of papers. Then he slid his wand back into its hand-tooled sheath with a graceful flourish.

Granger had flinched back a step when he drew his wand. But, after staring for a moment at the dust-streaked items restored to her desk, she flushed bright red. "I could have got-" she began irritably, but then with visible effort swallowed down the rest of her sentence and bit down on her bottom lip.

Taking a deep breath in through her nose, she exhaled loudly. Then she met his eyes straight on and clearly stated, "Thank you." The tone was only slightly begrudging.

"Think nothing of it," Draco dismissed, only wanting to get his business done and leave, not start another round of petty bickering. "I just need to file a petition for a new permit for customs, and I was told to submit it here." He arched an interrogative eyebrow. "You do work in this office, correct?"

"Oh, yes," Granger stuttered out, collecting her dignity. "I'm filling in for the usual clerk while she's on Christmas vacation. I'm better at petitions than she is anyways, so you're in luck. Leave it with me, and you should have a reply within three to five business days." She gave him a professional yet obviously plastic smile, "probably sooner unless my cat gets to it."

Wrinkling his nose at the thought, Draco barely suppressed a sarcastic comment. Swallowing it back, he probably looked much like she had just a moment earlier. "Very well, I'll look forward to your correspondence. We'd appreciate a rush, since this is for the new museum exhibit opening in January. If you have any questions, feel free to contact my office or that of British Museum of Magic Director Iravan Banerjee," he explained professionally, placing the scroll into the tray on her desk.

Granger looked a little lost, obviously unsure how to react to his continued civility as she bit her lip again. It was petty, but he felt a curl of amusement at her reaction. Barely restraining a smirk, he gave her a nod and turned to leave.

"Malfoy," she blurted out abruptly. Pausing, she took another bracing breath.

Wary, he turned back. A faint pink blush still suffused her cheeks. As Draco met her suddenly earnest brown eyes, she squirmed and bit her lip again.

Granger's lip biting suddenly sparked Draco's memories of Hogwarts. In fact, that lip used to feature almost nightly in his secret fantasies. At first he'd try to resist any fantasy starring Granger as perverted and wrong, but eventually his hedonistic nature had won the battle and he'd used her image to thoroughly enjoy himself.

It seemed like almost overnight, Hermione Granger had blossomed from a scrawny, bucktoothed know-it-all into a lush pocket Venus (who still thought she knew-it-all, but had learned to bite her lip in Potions class, at least, to keep from being constantly reprimanded). Seeing the effort it took her to keep her mouth shut when she had an answer, the way she'd squirm in her chair and the little white indents her now perfectly proportioned white teeth always made in her lush lower lip… well, it had started giving the adolescent Draco ideas.

His most played fantasy had involved Granger messing up in Potions. She'd be too busy staring longingly at Draco. The professor would make Draco, as his star student, stay with her after class to make sure she redid her potion correctly. By the end of his "tutoring" session, she'd be biting her lip to keep from screaming his name in ecstasy, and when they left the classroom and went separately in to dinner, she'd squirm on the Gryffindor bench because she was too sore from his attentions to sit still.

The other girls in Gryffindor would steal glances his way and sigh, while Potter and the Weasel would be both absolutely horrified and jealous of all of the attention. Some iterations of that one had her jumping up on the table and proclaiming to the entire hall that Draco was the best shag of her life. Others had her sneaking him into the Gryffindor girl's dormitory for an orgy, with him as the only male attending. If anyone could get past that spell preventing males from going up, he knew it would be Granger.

It made class hell, since every time she bit her lip and squirmed, he'd start to get hard. Thank goodness for the bulkiness of school robes. That, tall tables, and her insistence on talking (which always destroyed any incipient fantasizing on his part), helped to conceal his arousal.

Indeed, outside of the fantasies, he would often remind himself that he found her just as annoying as ever. His friends and family would also come down on him like ravenous trolls if they caught him consorting with a mudblood. Not that he was too sure he believed in that mudblood stuff after a few years at Hogwarts, but it was safer for people to think if he did back then.

Draco had decided that his fantasizing was perfectly normal. Other girls appeared in his daydreams too, just not as often as Granger. But he never had a crush, simply a very active and healthy male libido.

Once they'd all left Hogwarts, lack of proximity, the availability of other women, and life in general had caused the fantasies to fade. Draco only occasionally interacted with Granger at the Ministry. Plus, he'd rarely stayed single for long since his divorce. Right now was the longest he'd been single in years.

He hadn't thought of that fantasy in years. How strange to be reminded of it now, Draco thought. Perhaps he needed to start dating again.

"Thank you again for your help," Granger said, interrupting his introspection. This time, her words were spoken sincerely with a wry sort of smile, as if inviting them both to find humor in the prior situation. "I appreciate it. Really."

The smile transformed her face from wary adversary into something Draco wasn't quite prepared to classify. He wasn't used to receiving smiles from Granger. Draco felt unbalanced against the sheer warmth in her smile. As he soaked it in, he became aware of the mingled scents of parchment, dust, and something indescribably lovely that might be Hermione herself floating in the air.

"My pleasure," he replied in a slightly gravelly voice, his words just as polite as if speaking to any other woman of his acquaintance. Any woman except Hermione Granger, that is. Helplessly returning her smile, he then turned to leave.

"Well," she continued with a strange lilt, "it is written that helping others when unasked bespeaks true nobility of spirit or an overly zealous maternal hex."

Pausing in his turn towards the door, Draco had to ask, "Isn't that Metrophanes Marinari? From his first book on philosophy and social contracts?"

A look of surprised pleasure shot through Granger's face. "Why, yes. His journals are coming to an exhibit at the British Museum of Magic next month. I haven't got a ticket yet, but I'm quite excited. Although some of his suppositions are horribly inaccurate, and he's ridiculously prejudiced, the questions he poses and the possible steps to address them are fascinating and years beyond his contemporaries. Plus, his sailing adventures are quite exciting!" She paused in her excited rambling to take a breath, then asked, "You've read him?"

"Of course," Draco scoffed. "I was surprised he wasn't required reading at Hogwarts." Stepping closer he continued keenly, "He's a supercilious old bastard, but a genius for all of that. You have to take into account the time period before dismissing some of his opinions as just 'prejudiced,' too. Even if you strip away the slurs, most of the charges he leveled were accurately applied to his sample magical populations."

A grin of reminiscence creased Draco's face. "His humor is also witty enough that I managed to devour both the original book and his sequel revisiting the topic fifteen years later in the same week. If you don't compare the diagrams side by side, you miss out on a lot of the context in the second volume."

"I know, especially in his third essay!" Hermione beamed back enthusiastically as she rocked up onto her toes and back.

Draco hadn't had a conversation like this in years. He scrambled to think of what else she might have read, if she appreciated Marinari. Perhaps Branislav Fedoruk?

But as he stared into her eyes, which resembled sumptuous chocolate sundaes flecked with edible gold, he found his thoughts scattering like an open basket of chocolate frogs. Draco forgot his next sentence. His grin slipped from his face. Just like the first time he'd beheld one of those thousand galleon sundaes, Draco didn't care about the price, he just _wanted_.

"You have a little bit of," he raised his hand and ran his fingertip gently down the slope of her pert nose, "dust here…" Draco's raspy voice trailed off. Granger's eyes had gone wide, almost daring him to become lost in their gold-flecked depths, to take. She seemed to be holding her breath.

_Is she swaying forward, or am I?_ Draco wondered foggily as his heart pounded faster. All his attention focused down to the sheen on her plump lower lip.

Abruptly the charged atmosphere broke when someone rapped sharply against the doorframe. "Package delivery," a cheerful voice announced.

They sprang apart. Draco dropped his eyes and tried to restrain his breathing. Whatever had just almost happened was… something he wasn't going to think about. Not right now.

"I'll leave you to it," he strangled out, all he could manage through his internal flailing. Sidestepping the mail cart being wheeled into the room, he took several more steps back. He had to get out of here.

"Ha- have a good day, Mr. Malfoy," Granger responded in an overly professional tone of voice. It held only a hint of a wobble.

Not looking up again, unwilling to repeat the insanity that had led him to touch her face in the first place, Draco strode off down the hallway to the lift. Obviously he needed to get more sleep, he told himself shakily. And no more ice cream.

Taking the floo directly to his flat, he ordered the house elves not to admit any visitors. Then he locked himself in his bedroom and threw himself violently down onto the bed (only pausing a moment first to carefully hang up his outer robe so the fabric wouldn't get wrinkled). Covering his face with a pillow, Draco resolved to stay there until his good sense returned.

* * *

><p>One week later, Draco sat at his desk flipping through his mail. He was trying to keep focused on business, but his mind kept wandering. It kept slipping over to visit one Hermione Granger. Not only that, but she kept sneaking into his dreams, too. It was worse than even when he'd been a teenager, because he had so much more practical knowledge now with which to fuel his fantasies.<p>

Two days after their little interlude, the museum permit had arrived by owl. So now there was no excuse for him to go back and see her again. Foolishly, he felt disappointed by her efficiency. She had foiled his fantasy of being forced to return and seduce the permit out of her. In his more insane moments, he wondered what she would be willing to seduce him to get, and if he could somehow procure it as some sort of leverage. Wrenching his attention back to the papers at hand, Draco reminded himself again to focus.

Two letters later, he paused at a note from his mother. It reminded him that he'd accepted an invitation to Ramsey Buckleshot's Masquerade Ball on New Year's Eve. He was to be the family representative, since his parents were out of town for the holidays. A small note written at the bottom in purple pen added, "Don't forget to get your costume cleaned. I'm sure you've already picked out something suitable."

Draco grimaced. He'd completely forgotten about a costume. Perhaps on purpose, since he'd rather not go, but that wasn't an adult, responsible reaction. Or one his mother would accept. How anyone would notice he wasn't there when they were all in costume was a moot point, according to her. He'd asked.

Looking at the small stack of property law articles he was supposed to peruse before his father's return, Draco decided that even shopping for a costume he didn't want was preferable to reading those. Jumping up, he grabbed his cloak and flooed over to Diagon Ally.

As he wandered around the crowds, he found his attention caught by the dazzling window of Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes. Inside he could see a gaggle of children racing around, a few entranced fathers, several worried mothers, and George Weasley gesturing expansively. Draco watched as George demonstrated a Headless Hat for a customer, smiling widely as his bright orange hair, along with everything else down to his Adam's apple, disappeared when he put on the hat. His head reappeared when the hat was removed and several children applauded.

A warm glow stirred in Draco's chest as he remembered the wonder of childhood and exploring Zonko's Joke Shop for the first time. Sometimes he missed those days, when everything was so black and white and his parents were infallible. He'd been a very happy, spoiled, child.

A few seconds later, George glanced to the side and abruptly dropped his smile. Worry and what might be longing peeked out briefly from behind his salesman face. Then, resuming his usual grin, he handed the hat to a beaming blond girl bouncing at his side, waved over a co-worker, and strolled to the side door.

Curious, Draco peered through the glass, trying to see what or who had caught George's eye. A dark-skinned woman waited by the side door. As she turned towards George, Draco recognized Angelina Johnson. She looked pale and strained.

Remembering the gossip he'd heard about her public brake-up with Ramsey Buckleshot, Draco felt a glimmer of pity. This was closely followed by curiosity as George put an arm around Angelina's shoulders and turned her towards the private offices in back. Pushing away from the window, Draco reminded himself that it was none of his business. Then he forced himself to walk away and continue his search for a costume.

Finally he decided to visit Madame Malkin's Robes for All Occasions. Their sign boasted that they had switched out more than a third of their inventory to costumes just for New Year's Eve Party customers. Going inside, Draco looked around and felt his hopes drop. The remaining pickings were very slim. Nevertheless, after a few minutes of searching Draco found a black dragon costume that might work.

An inner voice mocked him for his lack of originality (_Draco's a dragon again, how nice_), but if anyone did recognize him, it was the type of costume they'd expect to see him in. After all, that was his role these days, Mr. Conformity. Draco swallowed back the surge of acid in his throat and pulled out the costume to examine it.

The dragon costume looked very simple, but he didn't really need to be extravagant. He didn't want to stand out, after all. Just do his duty and leave. Fingering the cheap leather robes sewn or magicked to resemble scales and wings, Draco thought that he could probably create the same set of robes in a more luxurious fabric for one third of the price. But did he really want to go to the effort? What did it matter?

Turning to the counter to buy the thing and leave, Draco found his way blocked by the entrance of a large party of five or six giggling teenage girls. They swarmed the store cheerfully and started cooing over the remaining costumes. Sighing, Draco retreated back down his aisle, hoping to skirt the group and reach the edge of the counter.

That made two reminders of youthful exuberance this evening, he thought to himself. Draco didn't want to be a child again. Sometimes though, he wished to return to that younger time when he felt so certain of himself and his place in the world.

Eyes catching on a feathered scarlet and gold costume almost hidden on the back of the last rack, Draco felt his lips curl into an ironic smile. _Oh to be a phoenix, _Draco thought_, able to immolate my current self and raise from the ashes a new man. To come back clean of all scars,_ he fingered his left forearm absently through his robes,_ and have tears that can heal._ _To speak in such a way that your voice increases the courage of the good and strikes fear into the hearts of the evil. To be known everywhere for your loyalty,_ he tugged gently at the sleeve of the costume to further expose it._ What a glorious thing that must be…._

Letting his fingers drift over the scarlet-feathered epaulets, Draco felt a small tug of rebellion blossom in his heart. Dropping the dragon costume to the floor like trash, he pulled the phoenix costume off the rack. As he examined it, he noticed that the craftsmanship of the costume was vastly superior to that of the dragon. Lines of metallic thread glittered in the cloth like buried embers. Someone had obviously spent a lot of time making this, for the outfit walked a careful line between flamboyance and masculine elegance.

The skillful use of dark reds and bronzes added a sophistication that elevated the costume into something far beyond a mere Gryffindor suit of scarlet and gold. At fifteen he still would have discarded it based on the colors. But fifteen was a lifetime ago. Besides, Draco now knew the value of 'daring, nerve, and chivalry,' though Slytherin resourcefulness, cunning, and ambition still had their place.

Letting that spark of bravery and wildness grow, Draco carried the phoenix costume up the aisle. The crowd of teenagers decided at that moment to leave the store, opening up a clear path to the front counter. Firmly squashing his doubts, Draco paid for the costume and left.

_Perhaps this party would prove to be interesting after all,_ he mused hopefully.

TO BE CONTINUED


	4. Haunted by the Past

Disclaimer: The Harry Potter world does not belong to me.

**The Scent of Parchment:** A Harry Potter fanfic

by Indygodusk

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 4: Haunted by the Past<strong>

New Year's Eve should be exciting. Yet all Draco could muster up was low-level anxiety. As he studied the bright phoenix costume hanging on the door of his closet, he wondered if he was making a mistake. Perhaps people would just think that Draco was once again pretending to be something he wasn't, instead of seeing the message of rebirth and hope for himself that he'd first envisioned.

Tired of running in circles in his head, Draco took down the costume. Feathers tickled the back of his hand and he shook out the robes. Once again, he found himself impressed by the craftsmanship as his vision zoomed in on the stitching. Although not exactly literal, the costume still evoked exactly what it should: a phoenix.

In fact, it reminded him of the last time he'd seen a phoenix… Fawkes. Seamlessly Draco slipped into memory, seeing years of flickering images of Fawkes flying towards Headmaster Dumbledore though the halls of Hogwarts. Then the images coalesced into that day… the day he'd disarmed Dumbledore and hesitated.

If Snape hadn't come, Draco didn't know what he would have done. He'd like to think he would have let Dumbledore go, maybe even helped him, despite the taunting of the other Death Eaters. But Draco would never know.

He still had nightmares about it. When the Headmaster had revealed that he knew about the assassination attempts, Draco had felt a terrible twisting in his gut: anger, shame, and relief. Draco hadn't wanted to kill Dumbledore, hadn't wanted to kill anybody. Although he'd never said it, Draco had always suspected that Snape hadn't wanted to kill Dumbledore either.

Later in the privacy of his room, curled up under a blanket with a pillow pressed tightly to his face to muffle any noises, Draco had screamed and sobbed for all them: for Dumbledore, Snape, and himself. He'd even, at the end, found himself crying for stupid, cursed Potter. Dumbledore was gone, the world was changing for the worse, and even though he hadn't cast the spell personally, he knew that he would bear the guilt of it for the rest of his life, would see Dumbledore's face at the moment life left it forever.

Coming back to himself with a start, Draco threw the costume on the bed and sucked in a lungful of air. Cold sweat had dewed on his brow while he'd been caught in his memories. Wiping his face with the sleeve of his dressing gown, Draco told himself to get a grip.

After sitting for a full minute in his armchair, which faced a window looking out onto the moonlit gardens, Draco called a house-elf for a cup of cider. The elf popped in and out quickly, bringing a small plate with an apricot cookie as well. As he sipped the soothing yet tart flavor, Draco felt himself relax. The house-elf, Bipsy, tidied the room while he dunked his cookie and relaxed.

"An owl arrived for you a few minutes ago, Master Draco," said Bipsy after he'd consumed the last bite. "From your parents on the continent. I'll just fetch it for you." With that, Bipsy picked up the dirty dishes and disappeared again.

A split second later, she returned and handed over a letter. One corner had a slight puncture from owl beak or claws. Mother had just bought a new owl last month. The older owls knew better.

Only a few lines into the letter, Draco started to grimace. It started nicely enough with well wishes and commentary about his distant cousins, but then it derailed into nagging. His father took great pains to remind Draco to dress and comport himself as a Malfoy should at the party. Draco wondered what he would think of the phoenix costume, and considered sending him a picture just to rile him up.

Returning his attention to reading, Draco sighed as his Father added the command to touch base with any Malfoy business contacts at the party, since, he wrote with particular emphasis and the occasional underline, Draco was still single and thus not bringing a date. The lines following castigated Draco for not having married again to produce a child to carry on the Malfoy name.

Biting back the urge to curse and throw something, since it would only frighten Bipsy, Draco instead satisfied himself with crumpling up the note. Then, with great deliberation, he dropped it into the trashcan. Blowing out a breath of frustration, Draco dismissed Bipsy and thanked her for the extra cookie.

As Bipsy disappeared, Draco had to snort to himself as he thought about how shocked Granger would be to see him thanking a house-elf. Her crusading on behalf of other magical creatures had slowly begun to seep into wizarding culture, even the exalted Malfoy Manor. Though he still maintained that almost all house-elves were happier working than free.

Shaking his head sharply, Draco realized that he'd once again let his thoughts turn to Hermione Granger. He needed to stop thinking about her. They would never work out, and he would only make himself more miserable with his continued obsessing.

Ripping off his dressing gown irritably, he snatched up the costume off the bed. Glancing down, Draco found his action suddenly arrested. The bright phoenix costume clutched in his fist, symbolizing rebirth and hope, hung limply over his wrist and contrasted sickly against the Dark Mark still (forever) scarred onto his pale forearm. Seeing it, Draco felt a swell of bitterness, followed by defeat.

Perhaps he should stop struggling and just give in to his fate. He knew what was expected of him. He might as well just do it.

Clenching his jaw tightly, he snatched up his wand, grabbed a few items from his potions closet, and stoically transfigured his costume from a flamboyant phoenix into a monochrome dragon in black and gray. He didn't have time to make any big changes, but it should be good enough for a few hours. Dressing quickly, he spelled his hair, affixed his mask, grabbed a winter cloak, and left for the party- the very picture of a dutiful Malfoy heir.

* * *

><p>After several hours of polite chitchat and making appropriate contacts with the right people, Draco was more than ready to leave. He didn't care that it wasn't midnight yet. A new year held nothing exciting, it merely meant the same old routines. Not even the sight of Ramsey Buckleshot strutting around with neither his secretary nor his singer, but instead with a blond Quidditch cheerleader from Sweden, erased his apathy. Duty accomplished, he slinked off to the cloakroom to fetch his things and leave.<p>

Consequently he greeted the sight of the empty station where the cloak attendant was supposed to be with great annoyance. Draco drummed his fingers on the wooden countertop impatiently. As he glanced around for a servant, he noticed a couple darting through the side corridor dressed as ghosts. Draco blinked in surprise. The small glimpse he'd gotten looked remarkably like George Weasley and Angelina Johnson. Why would they be here?

Before he could get a better look, they turned the corner out of sight. Perhaps Angelina had come to try and talk to Ramsey about their relationship. If so, it looked like he'd already moved on. Curious, but unwilling to pursue it if it meant inconveniencing himself, Draco mused that if it really was Angelina, he'd probably hear about it in the gossip columns tomorrow.

Giving up on waiting, Draco slipped underneath the partition and turned left to enter the cloakroom himself. The room had been spelled to block a simple '_accio_ _cloak_,' ever since an enterprising teenager had robbed the place blind eighty years ago. Draco found that extremely shortsighted, since it forced him to comb through the racks by hand.

Reaching the end of one row, Draco jostled the last cloak a little too hard in his frustration, causing a white bag to spill out of the pocket onto the floor. Sighing in annoyance, Draco snatched up the bag and noticed a small tear in the corner. Two round yellow balls rolled out into his palm. Blinking down at them, Draco felt suddenly lightheaded as he recognized them. He'd only seen them in one other place before. They were sherbet lemon drops - Dumbledore's favorite candy.

"You're being ridiculous, Draco," he told himself hoarsely. Shoving the package back into the pocket, he realized that even the old fashioned style of the cloak reminded him of his old headmaster.

The hair on the back of his neck prickled in a cold draft.

Flinching, Draco stumbled back, tripped, and found himself sitting on the floor. Breathing too quickly, he became lightheaded and couldn't find the coordination to stand again. Finally, he put his head down between his knees and forced himself to breath evenly until he stopped feeling like he might pass out.

"Ridiculous," he muttered again to his knees. It had to be a coincidence. Dumbledore had always been strange, but Draco knew the man would have forgiven Draco for his actions at Hogwarts. That he had forgiven Draco before his death. He wouldn't maliciously haunt him.

However, that didn't mean Dumbledore's spirit wasn't involved….

But what could Dumbledore want? If not vengeance, than maybe this was a sign of something else. Maybe Dumbledore was trying to help him. Perhaps this New Year's Eve party needed something more to make it complete. Maybe it needed a phoenix, and without Fawkes that left only Draco to fill in.

Maybe Draco Malfoy needed to be reborn. Maybe it was time. _Why not?_

A strangled laugh escaped Draco's throat. Getting to his feet, he whispered out loud in a steadier voice, "Why not." Even Draco Malfoy could put on a bit of courageous Gryffindor, as long as he kept his briefs a nice, silky green underneath, right?

Turning to the mirror in the corner, he took a deep breath, pulled out his wand, and reversed the series of transfiguration spells on his costume. A riot of red and gold threads burst from his shoulders and raced down the cloth, turning scaled leather back into velvety feathers. Draco's new robes clung closely to the contours of his torso, but flared behind his waist to fall in gold and bronze braids, feathered to represent a long phoenix tail.

Tilting his head towards the mirror, Draco spelled his blond hair to resemble feathers of crimson, carmine, and scarlet, highlighted with glints of golden-yellow flame. He then turned his mask the gold of a phoenix's beak and tinted his nails to match.

Already his spirits felt lighter. However, looking himself over in the mirror, he still felt that he needed something more. Rifling through the nearby cloaks, Draco came up with an assortment of beauty products. Scrutinizing his selection as carefully as any general surveying his troops, Draco found only three items that both met his standards and matched his color scheme. Unfortunately, the expensive Japanese peacock body shimmer would clash with his outfit. He set it aside with a regretful sigh, though not before making note of the product number.

Then Draco began putting on his war paint. To start, he drew on liquid black eyeliner that reflected the light like obsidian shards. Next came a glittering gold eye shadow that randomly sparkled with shooting stars. Both emphasized the exotic nature of his silver-gray eyes. Finally, he applied a red lip-gloss that tasted like cinnamon and was charmed to subtly shift color like the embers of a fire (and not wear off on forks or goblets, according to the label).

All in all, Draco thought as he preened in front of the mirror, he now looked both devastatingly attractive and nothing at all like the moody, monochromatic Malfoy heir who had entered the cloakroom. He felt truly alive for the first time in years. Resituating his wand up his sleeve, Draco carefully secured the golden mask to his face. Then, with a spring in his step, he ducked back out of the cloakroom and returned to the party a phoenix reborn.

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><p>Entering the ballroom, Draco found his attention almost immediately caught by a woman standing back against the wall. She sported purple hair and robes that hadn't been fashionable since the 1800s. On top of that, she had random fish fins and strands of what might be seaweed and pearls strewn about her robes, mask, and headpiece. The costume seemed part mermaid and part witch.<p>

Although such an unfashionable outfit would usually have him turning away with a wince, something about her intrigued him. Her sumptuous body, neither highlighted nor hidden by her robes, swayed back and forth in time to the music, but no one came forward to ask her to dance. A slightly wistful look drifted across her face as a new song started, but she made no move to leave the wall and find a partner.

Unable to resist, Draco stepped forward, bowed gallantly, and kissed the back of her hand. "Mademoiselle, it is my pleasure to make your acquaintance. May I have this dance?"

Startled brown eyes stared up into his for a moment before a pleased smile bowed her full lips. "I've always liked phoenixes. The pleasure is all mine," she returned. Taking his arm, she practically bounced out to the dance floor, almost dragging Draco in her eagerness.

After several hours of pleasurable dancing (she only stepped on his foot twice) and startlingly intelligent conversation, they adjourned to the refreshment table for a break. Surveying the colorful spread of exotic juices, cheeses, fruits, and pastries, Draco couldn't help but grab two apricot tarts for himself.

Taking a bite, he barely suppressed a moan of bliss. The crusts were so light and fluffy they disintegrated on his tongue, and the tart apricot filling was just sweet enough to compliment the crust's buttery notes without being cloying. He was in heaven. Eyes half-shut as he focused on taste, it took Draco a moment to realize that his companion had spoken.

"-for me?"

Draco blinked back at her uncomprehendingly and popped the second tart into his mouth.

She laughed. "I asked if one of those was for me, but I can see that that was a silly question. I'll just stick my strawberry one, since they're my favorites anyways." Licking a bit of red filling off her fingertip, she sent him a sideways look and teased, "But for the future, I'll make note to never get between you and an apricot."

Blushing bright red, Draco apologized. Then, discombobulated, he retreated to fetch them both a glass of punch. Normally he would never forget himself so much as to gorge on pastries in public. Not only that, but no one had made him blush in years.

There was something special about her. Sometime during their dancing, Draco had let himself get caught up in the witty conversation and had relaxed the usually tight grip he kept on his inner self. She made him want to be honest. Every word out of her mouth dripped with both genuine sincerity and intelligence. He was enchanted.

Returning to her side, Draco had his face firmly under control as he passed over her drink. Walking closely next to her as they drifted over to the wall to talk, he felt one of the fins on her costume flutter softly against his wrist. As they sipped their drinks, Draco finally had to ask, "Just what is your costume supposed to be?"

"Oh, I'm Mirabella Plunkett," she said, as if that should explain everything.

Draco blinked and strained his mind, but couldn't quite remember anyone by that name from history class. All he could dimly picture was a face on a card. In fact… "Was she perhaps on a Chocolate Frog Card? I'm afraid I don't remember more than that, as the escaping Chocolate Frog held more interest to my ten-year-old self than the details on the back."

An embarrassed look crossed her face. "Yes, well," she bit her lip for a moment, and then continued, "all of the other costumes but Mirabella were sold out by the time I got to the shop. I tried to spruce it up a bit, but last-minute couturing isn't my forte." She waved a hand at her unusual headpiece and shrugged.

"Her story probably isn't one that would interest most people much, anyway," she explained in a strangely familiar tone of voice. The purple hair and random fins on her costume were throwing him off though. He couldn't figure out who she reminded him of.

Unaware of his scrutiny, she continued. "Mirabella was a witch born in 1839, famous for falling in love with a merman while on vacation. Of course, her family was prejudiced against non-humans and didn't approve. They forbid her to marry him or even see him again. She became so despondent she transfigured herself into a haddock and disappeared into the water, never to be seen again."

"A haddock, how romantic," Draco said with a sarcastic grin.

"Yes, well," she continued with a smile, "I agree that her reaction seems rather useless. What if she'd gotten caught and eaten by some random fisherman? Or lost her humanity and the ability to think? After all, a haddock can't read or philosophize or do spells." She gestured emphatically as she spoke. "Turning oneself into a haddock isn't very practical."

Draco laughed out loud, inexplicable charmed by her fervor. "No indeed."

She winked cheekily up at him, "I'd like to think that she later transfigured herself into something much more useful, and ended up living happily under the waves the rest of her life, with or without her merman."

"If anyone asks," Draco said mock-seriously, "we'll definitely tell them that version."

She beamed back at him delightedly.

Dazzled by the beauty of her smile, Draco let his eyes drift across her form in appreciation. Her mask, covered in glittering scales, covered her face from nose to forehead. He was dying to know what she looked like beneath it. The open view of two plump lips perched atop a very strong chin only whetted his appetite to see more. _Would her nose reinforce that stubborn chin, or soften the effect?_

The exertion of the dance had allowed an amethyst lock of hair to escape her pins and curl enticingly over her shoulder, where it spilled down her pert bosom. Draco mused again on the tragedy of covering such a bosom with such horridly old-fashioned robes. They buttoned all the way to the base of her throat. The only saving grace was that the cheap fabric hugged her body just enough to hint at some impressive curves all the way down.

Blushing at his frank appraisal, she looked down and brushed a crumb off the front of her robes. This action caused her sleeve, slit to the elbow, to waterfall down the pale skin of her forearm, leaving it enticingly bare. Such a simple thing, yet that flash of extra skin made his breath catch.

She should look frumpy in her costume. But somehow, inexplicably, the combination of her quick mind and hinted-at-curves turned her into a whimsical and seductive enchantress. Draco could well understand how a merman would fall in love with a woman like this.

TO BE CONTINUED


	5. The Goblet of Fuego

Disclaimer: The Harry Potter world does not belong to me.

AN: This chapter is rated Mature and contains intimations of sex. It has been edited for explicit content. An unedited version has been posted at _Hawthorne and Vine_ at dramione(dot)org(slash)viewstory(dot)php?sid=1546 if you want to read that version instead. Please let me know what you think about this.

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><p><strong>The Scent of Parchment:<strong> A Harry Potter fanfic

by Indygodusk

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><p><strong>Chapter 5: The Goblet of Fuego <strong>

Suddenly, the sound of a bugle sounded throughout the ballroom. "Dear guests," rang out the magically amplified voice of Ramsey Buckleshot, their host. "We are only a few minutes from midnight and the start of a new year!" He paused for a round of applause. "Waiters are circulating with trays of rare _Perkidian Fuego Punch_, imported all the way from Cape Horn just for your pleasure. Please join me in counting down a toast to midnight, and let us celebrate new friends and new beginnings!" Another round of polite applause and a few cheers followed his words.

"That must have cost a pretty penny," Draco mused out loud.

"What?" his companion asked.

"Oh, the Fuego punch," he answered. "I've had it before, but it is notoriously hard to come by outside of the Perkidian conclave at the tip of South America. They guard the bottles zealously against export. I don't see how he could afford to smuggle enough out for the entire party."

Tilting her head, his mystery lady posited, "Perhaps he hired a disaffected Perkidian to come over and make it fresh for the event. They probably don't control the export of individual ingredients as carefully as they do the finished product."

Draco stared at her in amazed appreciation.

"What?" she asked self-consciously, tucking several escaping locks of hair behind her ear.

"I'm just not used to such an intelligent companion," he answered, thinking of the inanity of his last few girlfriends. None of them would have had any useful theories or speculations. Either too little wit or too much used with cruelty had led him to give up on dating for a while. He wasn't used to a woman who was kind, intelligent, and possessing sexy lips to boot.

Shoulders slumping, she sighed. "Yes, intelligence is usually the main thing men say to describe me. Usually as a precursor to boring."

"No," Draco protested, grasping her hand. For a split second she resisted, before giving in to his tug and allowing him to cradle her hand to his chest. Running his fingers down the edge of her writing and wand calluses, he mused that despite her small size, this woman wasn't delicate at all. She would not break under pressure.

"I don't find you boring at all. In fact," he stated, looking into her eyes earnestly, "you seem to be everything a man could want in a woman - smart, witty, and beautiful."

Another fiery blush rushed up her face. "I think you must have gotten into the punch already," she protested.

"Or perhaps you need to hang out with a different kind of man," he replied, staring into her eyes as he placed a soft kiss on her wrist.

Releasing her hand, he stepped back. A few seconds later, a waiter bustled up to them with a tray of drinks. Draco grabbed two and handed his mystery lady a glass.

"To new friends and new beginnings," he toasted as the people around them began to count down the last ten seconds to midnight.

"To new friends and new beginnings," she repeated huskily.

At the stroke of midnight, rainbow-colored Bolivian bats were released to dart throughout the ballroom in lieu of mundane confetti. Their wings created a breeze that swept through the room and ruffled costumes and hair. People screamed, laughed, and cheered.

Smiling into each other's eyes, they drained their glasses. A split second later, both gasped and started coughing. "That must be an acquired taste," she said with a grimace.

Draco wrinkled his nose unhappily. "The Perkidian Fuego I had before didn't taste like that. It was much more fruity and without the pungent aftertaste. They must have messed up the recipe."

Giving their drained glasses to another passing waiter, they returned to the center of the room and continued dancing. Draco realized that their host hadn't made any sort of announcement about an unmasking. A part of him felt grateful. His current anonymity was freeing. He didn't want to strain the connection he felt to the woman in his arms by complicating things with real identities just yet.

As they swept across the parquet floor, Draco appreciated the chance to hold her in his arms, even if he couldn't do the kind of touching he'd really like to. Slowly a strange sort of heat began flushing through Draco's body, curling down his limbs and up his neck. Everything disappeared into insignificance but the woman in his arms, and all things began to seem possible.

"Has it gotten hotter in here?" she asked before unbuttoning the top two buttons of her robes.

"Yes, definitely," Draco replied as he watched the slinky material slide and spread, revealing the shadowy edges of her clavicles and the barest hint of cleavage.

As they continued to orbit the dance floor, Draco became more and more enticed by the occasional glimpse of a freckle on her shoulder the shape and color of a strawberry. Her shifting neckline teased him with partial glimpses. He wanted to lick it and see what it tasted like right there, where her neck curved into her shoulder. In fact, he wanted to lick all of her curves. Their dancing became closer and closer, until they were practically grinding together, ignoring the tempo of the music.

Peripherally Draco noticed flashes of skin writhing in the dark corners of the ballroom, which should shock or alarm him, but for some reason it just didn't seem to matter. Other couples on the dance floor were acting strangely too, some doing Irish step dancing, others hip hop, even a Japanese fan dance. On the edges of the room, he saw adults somersaulting over each other like children, hopscotching pots of plants, and several octogenarians finger-painting on the wall with the pate and raspberry mousse.

Sophie Bradford stood by the buffet table, mask hanging around her neck, stuffing her cheeks with marzipan Snitches until she resembled a chipmunk. Baily Parker giggled next to her and splashed her hands happily in the bowl of pumpkin juice, spraying herself, Sophie, and the octogenarians.

But it all paled in importance to the woman in his arms. Draco couldn't find it in himself to care about anything else. She kept biting her lip as if wanting to say something and yet stopping herself. He found it both incredibly familiar and unbelievably arousing.

Sweating from the heat, they both grabbed another flute of icy Fuego punch from a passing waiter and gulped it down, ignoring the strange aftertaste. Despite the chill of the enchanted goblets, which caused condensation to drip down the sides of the glass, Draco only felt a moment of cool relief. Then he felt hotter than ever.

Discarding their goblets with matching grimaces, they returned to dancing. After a lively tango, his mystery lady undid another two buttons and fanned herself. Sweat lightly dewed her forehead and the shadowed hollow of her throat. Draco swayed forward to lick it off, only stopping because she twisted her body away to avoid another couple.

Suddenly Draco realized that he wasn't worried about his reputation. Even if someone recognized him, he just didn't care. It felt incredibly freeing.

"Do you ever-" she started to say, before stopping and biting her lip.

Unable to help himself, Draco used his thumb to tug her lip free. "Don't do that," he whispered huskily, unable to take his eyes off the glistening curve of her mouth, slightly swollen from her teeth. He wanted to make it swollen from his teeth instead. A gasp gusted against his fingertip, and Draco swallowed sharply.

They slowly stopped dancing and just stared into each other's eyes. When a couple bumped into them though, the jolt woke Draco up. Shaking his head slightly, he restarted their movement.

His mysterious companion exhaled a deep breath that he could feel puffing moistly against the skin of his neck and shifted closer into his hold. She then wound her arms around his neck, molding her curves to his body. Cupping his hands around her waist, Draco let his fingertips drape across the lower curve of her hips and swell of her rear.

Unable to wait a second longer, Draco let his lips drop down to the soft skin of her wrist, which rested so tantalizingly close on his shoulder. Inhaling softly, he kissed a path down her arm to the hollow of her elbow. He expected to find the hint of some overly sweet perfume, like the peony rose that seemed so popular with witches this year. But she once again surprised him by eschewing any artificial scent.

Underneath the alluring tang of her skin he found only the hint of musk and a faint scent of parchment. _Nothing fishy at all_, he thought with an internal smile. The smell was concentrated at the hollow of her elbow, and Draco found himself licking her inner arm, eager for a better understanding of the essence of this mystery woman.

Feeling her gasping for breath at the tickle of his lips, Draco ran his nose up the cloth covering her bicep. When his nose traced from cloth to smooth skin on her shoulder, he paused at the strawberry colored freckle there. Kissing it softly, he promised himself to come back and give it more attention later. Then he continued up to the base of her ear, inhaling deeply along the way. She smelled divine, and the next time he entered a library he just knew he'd get a hard-on from the memory of her parchment and musk skin.

Dragging his open mouth across her jaw, Draco relished the way her skin tugged at his lips and tempted him to investigate the curve of her cheek and bend of her neck. Even more urgent was the need to capture her plump lower lip between his teeth and lick it back and forth until it resembled wet velvet. Nevertheless, Draco moved slowly, savoring the anticipation of finally kissing his mystery lady.

"Now," she whispered. Turning her head towards him impatiently, she fused her lips with his. Letting out a pleased groan at her initiative, Draco pulled her body more snuggly against his own and deepened their kiss. Lips caressing lips, he felt exhilarated to at long last taste her mouth.

Finally forced to separate to take in some air, Draco felt drunk. Yet he'd only had 2 goblets of punch over several hours time. Wild thoughts raced through his mind. He wanted to rip (rip!) his clothes off, throw his mystery lady down to the ground, and make love to her in the middle of the polished parquet ballroom floor. Only the barest thread of sensibility held him back.

"You taste like cinnamon lip gloss," she whispered, staring at his lips. "And I might have smudged your foundation."

"Is that bad?" he asked huskily. So the cloakroom hadn't been his first foray into makeup tonight. Skin this perfect didn't come naturally, and he needed to look his best at a party. A good appearance was one of the few things in his life he had total control over.

A smile tilted her perfect lips. "No, just something I'm not used to." She flicked her eyes up to his, smirked, and slowly began pushing him backwards off the dance floor. "I'd like to get used to it," she paused, dropped her eyes, and suddenly the confident vixen disappeared, replaced by a shy fawn. "If you'll let me?" she asked hesitantly before biting her lip.

"Let you? Just try to keep me away. Anti-apparition spells won't keep a phoenix out, you know, and I have your taste now," Draco growled. Then he clenched his arms around her waist, pulled her up to her tiptoes, and plastered her against his front. Although not a very tall man, she was smaller still, and his move tipped her off-balance against his chest. She squeaked in surprise.

Stunned eyes searched his face, but Draco was momentarily beyond words. He simply _needed_. Tightening his hands, he dragged her off the dance floor. The light was dimmer here, and scattered couches, vases, and plants provided several secluded alcoves. At last they bumped into a couch half-concealed behind a massive potted plant.

Unable to go a single step further without tasting her again, Draco tipped them back onto the couch and seized her lips with his own. Immediately she opened her mouth and welcomed his tongue with a happy whimper. Her small hands slid over his shoulders and into his hair, and Draco didn't even care that she might mess up his hairstyle. She was more important. The way she made him feel was more important.

A groan of satisfaction rumbled in his throat. This is what he'd been looking for, this type of kiss and this type of woman: smart, witty, and so sexy she made him forget about everything but the taste of her body.

As their kisses intensified, he slowly pulled her robes up away from her smooth calves. Then he dragged his hand up underneath the hem to caress her skin. Although she was short in stature, the luxuriant length of her legs seemed to go on forever.

A shocked gasp escaped from her mouth to his. She jerked in surprise, and closed her thighs tight around his hand, stopping the movement. Although difficult, he raised his lips from hers.

"Oh, oh," she panted, as if trying to regain her powers of speech.

Draco eased back farther from her mouth.

"I- I don't do this. I've never even-" she gasped in heated puffs against his mouth.

As she spoke, her thighs trembled and her body arched involuntarily into his. Draco wanted nothing more than to sooth her fears and continue touching. He knew what her body needed right now, perhaps better than she did. If only she'd let him show her.

"Shh, I've got you. Let me," he begged, "let me." He wasn't sure exactly how far he planned to go. Draco had never done something like this before with a woman he'd just met, had never even been temped to push past that line of propriety, but tonight he didn't care. He just knew that she had to let him continue trying to get her there, to where her body wanted to go. Stopping completely at this point would kill him, kill them both.

A tense moment stretched out like hot taffy. Then, finally, she whispered a shuddering acquiescence.

Draco internally rejoiced. He wanted to be worthy of her trust. Gently pulling her head back into the cushions of the couch, he sent his lips worshipping down the column of her throat. As she relaxed into his kisses, he vowed to make this the most pleasurable experience of her life.

As his hands roamed across her body, whimpers escaped her throat and her eyelashes fluttered in pleasure behind her mask. He wanted to rip that mask off, to see every tremor of pleasure chasing across the muscles of her face. But she might balk, or come to her senses at exposing herself even further, and Draco couldn't risk that.

If what he suspected about her lack of experience was true, he had a chance to gain power over her. Draco could make this experience so addicting that she would never forget it. If he did this right, every man she glanced at in the future would be compared to this night, to his touch on her body, and found wanting.

Then she'd need Draco just as much as he suspected he already needed her, his mystery lady.

For several minutes, all that existed was her scent and Draco's worship of her giving curves. Too many clothes were in his way, but he didn't have the patience to slow down and untangle them. As she reacted with abandon to his touch, it only drove him wilder. For a second his eyes slipped closed as he concentrated on the blissful sensations bombarding his body.

When he finally reopened them, he found her biting her lip again. Sliding his hand up her satiny neck, he used his thumb to tug her lip away from her teeth. Seeing the moist red cavern he'd revealed, Draco couldn't help parting her lips farther with his thumb, plunging his tongue inside, and ravaging her mouth. Pulling back, he let that plump bottom lip drag between his teeth lightly, stretching it slightly before fully releasing it, letting her feel the difference between his teeth and her own. Eyelashes fluttering, her breath hitched.

Unable to maintain eye contact against the tide of arousal bombarding his senses, Draco let his mouth drop to the curve of her shoulder. Honing in on her strawberry freckle, he let his lips and teeth worry it. A few seconds later, her body tensed and stopped breathing as she began to orgasm.

Rutting against her thigh uncontrollably, Draco felt his own orgasm surging up. He tried to stop himself, wanting to come inside her, but it was too late. He had no self-control. As sensation exploded through his body, Draco bit down on her strawberry freckle just hard enough to leave a mark: claimed by Draco Malfoy.

They spent the next few hazy minutes slowly regaining their breath. Finally Draco mustered the energy to prop himself up on one elbow and meet her drowsy eyes. She opened her mouth as if to say something, but then paused, looked away, and bit her lip again.

A second later her eyes flew back to Draco's. She immediately released her lip and blushed, perhaps in memory of how he'd responded to her lip biting earlier. Amused and charmed, Draco dropped a soft kiss onto her nose, cheek, and swollen lips.

He should be feeling abashed that he came in his pants like a 14-year-old boy. Draco hadn't lost self-control like that in years. But the afterglow and the sight of her heavy eyes had him feeling too good to care about it right now.

A little voice in his head reminded him that he should also be alarmed that he just had sex in public, and with a stranger at that, but again, he couldn't quite seem to care. Besides, she didn't feel like a stranger. He intended to keep this woman in his life. No matter what.

Snuggling into his arms, Draco's mystery lover closed her eyes and dropped almost immediately off to sleep. A petit snore escaped her, but Draco couldn't find it anything but cute. Although the dance music seemed to have stopped, the room still echoed with the muted sounds of partygoers. The noise didn't seem to bother his lady though. Feeling his own eyes blinking heavily, Draco thought he could probably ignore it too.

Kissing her forehead softly, Draco loosened his embrace just enough to allow him to slip his wand from its sheath up his sleeve. Then he cast a quick spell to remove the sticky mess in his pants. He freshened her up too, something she'd appreciate when she woke up.

Looking at the mask still obscuring his lover's face, Draco felt another stab of need to see her true features. Inspection revealed that her mask wasn't tied on- it was spelled. He knew a few things that would probably negate the magic. Draco started to raise his wand to try and dispel her disguise, but….

Sighing, Draco realized that he shouldn't. A few hours ago he might have done it without worrying, but now, in the pre-dawn hour, he felt differently. Besides, he couldn't renew the masking spell after he took it off, since it was something that might wake her up. She'd know, and she might be mad enough that she'd refuse to see him again. Woman could be frustrating like that.

Plus, if she was one of those people still prejudiced against the Malfoy family because of their actions in the last war, it would make his suit that much more difficult. Replacing his wand slowly, he told himself to be patient. This was one woman he refused to let go easily. He hadn't been this interested in someone in ages. At least, not this interested in someone actually attainable. Pulling his lover closer, Draco let his eyes close and drifted off to sleep with the scent of parchment and musk lingering in his dreams.

TO BE CONTINUED

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><p>AN: Please let me know what you thought. Was the editing appropriate, or was it still too explicit? Did it flow well? What do you expect to happen the next morning? Thanks for reading!<p> 


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